


Home Comforts

by keiliss



Series: Gifties: Christmas 2016 [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cake, Gen, Mithlond, awkward moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 00:57:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9098494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/pseuds/keiliss
Summary: Alex asked for: Gil-galad/Círdan, the Havens, a humorous misunderstanding. (came out as family rather than slash, but I think I got the rest)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcat/gifts).



> I offered to write Christmas gifts this year, which were due on Christmas Day but most grew way past their expected (under 700 word) length so one a day till Twelfth Night works better.
> 
> Not one thing has turned out as planned this year, why did I expect this to? *g*

The waters of the Gulf of Lhûn were smooth as a pond as the ferry took the High King across the short strait to the house and busy shipyards presided over by Círdan, formerly lord of the shore folk back before the army out of the West came and buried Beleriand under an ocean of water. Now he was lord of a small part of Mithlond, but everyone still spoke of him as the Shore Lord (or the Shipwright) because, well, t wouldn’t be right not to. 

Gil-galad had been having quite a decent day as things went. This meant that nothing had broken, no Sinda had tried to kill a Feanorian, no Feanorian had got into a fight, and his aunt was busy with other matters and hadn’t been around for the past few days. He had no idea what Círdan wanted to see him about, but it could hardly be all that bad. With luck he would even get a late lunch – living on the other side of the strait meant he got to eat less of Barawen’s cooking and he missed it.

They reached the side of the harbour used by the ferry and he disembarked, telling the two very young trainee warriors who were his current honour guard to go amuse themselves, but be around when he was ready to leave. And no, he had no idea when that would be, they just had to stay alert. There was no pressing reason to have an honour guard, much less an armed escort. He was quite able to fend for himself if there was trouble, and of all the things likely to happen in Lindon, an attack on the king was low on the list. Everybody was too busy working to build a new city, a home, out of nothing for that kind of nonsense. 

Círdan had commissioned a building to house both himself and the academy he envisioned for training young mariners, and it was coming along nicely, in fact it was almost as far as the palace Gil-galad was building across the water. He didn’t really think he needed a palace, but his aunt was right, symbols were very important. And there had to be somewhere to conduct business and hear complaints and receive the chieftains of the Avari that sometimes came down from the hills to assert their independence. He was always very polite to them, figuring they wouldn’t bother to make the trip unless they really wanted the protection Lindon could offer.

The long flight of steps from the harbour was finished now; they had been a bit rough last time he was there. He went up slowly, admiring the view as he did so: he had lived a decent part of his life on an island and had an islander’s appreciation for the sea and for boats of all kinds. The ocean-going ships that carried those elves who wanted to leave Middle-earth across the sea were built further down, out of sight of prying eyes - just in case - but there was still a lot to see: fishing boats and traders from way down the coast and sleek little messengers to send along to the coastal villages that were mushrooming in Harlindon.

He went through the private wing of the new building and found Círdan in the little garden that overlooked the sea. It was really just an extension of Barawen’s kitchen garden but there were some nice shrubs, mainly the silver-grey variety found along the shore, an ornamental fish pond, and interestingly coloured grasses. There was a thatched gazebo now, sheltering a table and two chairs, and the Lord of the (now lost) Falas was sitting in one, leaning back with his eyes half closed. 

For a moment Gil-galad’s heart was touched by the sight: it was not often he was reminded of his foster father’s age. Then he thought how irritated Círdan would be by the suggestion that he was aging and hastily put it away. Too many episodes in his boyhood had left him wondering if the Telerin lord could in fact read his mind.

“Afternoon, Hîren,” he said briskly. “I believe you wanted to see me about something.” 

Círdan sat up a bit straighter. He might have looked half asleep, an ancient napping in the afternoon sun, but those sea-grey eyes were as observant and alert as ever. He was wearing an elderly blue robe that Gil-galad knew he was fond of and had his hair tied back in a ponytail. He was dressed for comfort, which on some level made Gil-galad feel he had come home.

“Ereinion, yes. Thank you for sparing the time. I know you are busy.”

Gil-galad, in the act of sitting down, hesitated, looking to see if Círdan was making fun of him but he looked dead serious. “Nothing that can’t wait,” he said carefully. “Nice to get away for a few hours. I have Eönwë after me for an update on the ship building for the Second Born, but I’m sure I can leave that for you to sort out with him.” He had learned it was good to leave certain things in Círdan’s control, it meant less conflict in the long run.

Círdan looked annoyed, which was not surprising. Eönwë had that effect on people, even people as generally pious as the Shipwright. “The ships will be built in the time it takes for them to be done properly,” he snapped. “I shall tell him this when next I see him.”

“Might want to leave that for a few days,” Gil-galad said. “Gildor and Erestor just got back from their trip to try and get in touch with the Avari clans that survived so he only now got a chance to put the Offer to Gildor. And Gildor being Gildor, he told him where he could shove his amnesty and forgiveness.”

Círdan sighed. “A little more respect would have smoothed that. Gildor was always hasty. Just like your Aunt Galadriel. Damn Finwëans”

At that moment Barawen came out bearing a tray with a pot of tea and a cake. Gil-galad brightened up; she always knew what he liked to eat. She had been part of his life since Círdan took him to Balar when he was still a small child, retreating down the coast from the attackers that assaulted and burned the great coastal cities and reduced parts of the lands under Círdan’s rule to rubble. She had come to cook for the Lord of the Falas and oversee the keeping clean of his house and soon became irreplaceable, the heart of the house that made it a home. 

“Carrot cake,” she said, putting the tray down on the table. “You’ll not get the likes of this over the water there.” Barawen was of woodelf stock, though born and raised on Balar, and had a low opinion of the food choices of the Noldor interlopers. “And good chai tea as well.”

“I’ve missed your cooking, Barawen,” Gil-galad assured her. He liked simple food, it was what he’d grown up on. Balar was not a place to learn exotic tastes, that was only coming into his life now.

She gave him a pleased look and almost ruffled his hair as she went past, the way she would when he was small. She poured their tea quickly and left them to talk, going through the garden and pausing to clip a few sprigs of savoury.

Círdan watched her as he sipped his tea, finally turning his gaze back to his fosterling once she had gone back in the kitchen. 

“Busy life, yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Nothing you learned on Balar could prepare you for a kingdom like Lindon, all these disparate groups to balance, decisions to take.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gil said. “I mean, I got to watch how you did things for years, and that was very good training. Just had to increase the scale a little, that’s all.” The cake was good. He was happy to sit and eat it while his foster father got round to whatever he had on his heart.

“You would think I had less work now that all I need to worry about is the ship building and training the young mariners,” Círdan said, eyes on the sea. “And building this place up into a proper academy where they can learn navigation and such before they take those boats out and get lost in them.”

Elves seldom got lost at sea so far as Gil-galad knew, but the idea of a central place for them to train first before going out with experienced masters seemed a good one. He’d heard no complaints anyhow. “Oh I know,” he said. “Not suggesting for one minute that you don’t have a lot on your plate. I do try and not add to it, but Eönwë…”

“Is a pain in the arse, yes,” Círdan agreed. “And I am happy to deal with him. But still, it does underline how full our lives have become now we live them on this very different scale. So many problems to decide, so much final responsibility with lives dependant on our choices.”

Warning bells were jangling for Gil-galad, but whatever it was he needed to ward off wasn’t yet clear. Just that this was going somewhere and Círdan was approaching it a little too carefully. Normally, with Gil-galad at least, he was direct to the point of bluntness. Just like a parent, he supposed. “Well, you always taught me that responsibility was part of the privilege of rank?”

“Yes, yes that it is.” Círdan sounded a bit distracted. “And for that reason, it is usually as well to have someone to share the load, a partner to confide in.”

“Partner?”

“Yes, indeed. Someone to listen, perhaps at times share the more difficult decisions.”

Gil-galad had a (rather informal) Council and had already enjoyed this discussion several times and supposed there’d be more in the future. He had not thought to hear it from Círdan though, who normally left him alone on the subject of relationships except to point out when someone would be unsuitable as a publically acknowledged love interest. That applied to almost everyone Gil had paid attention to over the years and even a few, like Erestor, that he hadn’t. 

“I’m not sure this is a good time for this conversation, Hiren,” he said, getting stuck into the carrot cake. If he needed to leave in a hurry, he wanted to make sure he’d eaten first.

“No, no, I’ve been thinking long and hard about it and this is certainly the right time. Later there will be so much more work to be done. And indeed, this is the first time in a very long while that the world has been safe enough for binding to seem like a positive choice.”

“Binding?” Gil-galad washed cake down with a large swallow of tea, almost choking.

“Indeed? This is the traditional time of the year, nothing pressing presents itself, Barawen is not a woman who would want an excess in fuss and display….”

Gil-galad put down his cup and stared at Círdan. Even the cake was forgotten. “Binding – with Barawen?” he got out, somewhere between embarrassment and outrage. He adored the woman, but... “Me?”

Círdan stared at him as he had used to when there was a particularly simple concept of ethics that his student had somehow not been able to grasp. “Don’t be an absolute fool, boy. Why in Arda would she go and do that? No. With me, of course.”

Air rushed back into Gil-galad’s lungs and he felt his skin flush as the colour returned to his face – he just knew he had turned white. Carefully he picked up his cup of milky tea again, as though he had not been at the point of bolting out of the garden, through the house and back down to the ferry. “About time,” he said, and was pleased to hear his voice sounded normal and not the high pitched squeak he half expected. “Just making sure you didn’t want me to actually perform the ceremony. I could, you know. As King.”

Círdan gave him a disbelieving look and then turned his attention back to his tea as well. “Thank you, Ereinion, but that will not be necessary. Lord Ulmo will be more than adequate.”


End file.
